ONE TO WATCH

ONE TO WATCH: PROLOGUE

Three women and a man strode down a wide cobbled street past the shuttered facade of Palazzo Castani in Milan central. They are model thin and tall, dressed in black, each with a pop of colour or white somewhere on their outfit, be it a bag or a tie. Not a word is spoken between them.

The first glimpses of Spring are beginning to appear, and a pair of journalists out since dawn, are thawing their frozen bodies under a weak sun, just around the corner from Police Headquarters.

"This is it," said the reporter to her photographer. The reporter was local, a seasoned professional with an incomparable nose for a story.

"They look familiar," said the photographer on a hunch, though he wasn't certain he could pick any one of the four out of a line up. His lens had captured hundreds of models over fashion week and, as undeniably glamorous as this lot were, they weren't the big names of the season. At least not yet.

There was a rumour on the street that a Venezuelan model had disappeared, and her housemate (also a model), was behind bars. No one yet had confirmation of the story. What was certain was that the world's media was soon to descend on Milan, and they'd be damned if they didn't have front row tickets to the story of the decade.

"They don't look like talking."

"Get in there!" the photographer said, lifting his lens.

The familiar clicking sound of the camera's shutter opening and closing at top speed, propelled the reporter into action. She approached the group with a bold stride, microphone outstretched, noting how each of them recoiled from the camera lens.

"Scusi? Mi scusi, posso avere un momento?"

The group ignored her. The man turned to the blonde woman beside him and whispered in her ear. She clutched at his arm and they both picked up pace, the other two stepping into their slipstream.

"Scusi?"

"We don't speak Italian." The blonde woman said over her shoulder.

"A moment of your time? Please?"

"Leave us."

"Is it true what they say-Bibiana Rivas-is she missing?"

"Christ!" the man said.

"No, it's not true! Nick it's not true. Tell her."

"You're going to Commissariato Centro?" the reporter asked.

"Leave us. Per favore..."

"I just want to ask a few questions."

"Nick, don't say a word!"

"I wasn't planning to."

"I'm a reporter for the Corriere della Sera. Just a quote? You'd be well compensated."

"It's time for you to go!" One of the women at the back glanced over her shoulder and flicked a hand at the pair.

"We're not celebrities," her friend said. "You can't do this."

"Yes, we're private citizens. We have rights."

"I just want to know who is in custody-" the reporter said, her voice rising to remain audible above the sound of a passing bus.

The group picked up pace to the extent that they could. The women all were hampered by towering heels.

The reporter kept up pace, shadowed closely by her colleague. "Do you know a Delyan Nikolov?"

The question hung in the air.

"Can you confirm an arrest?"

Suddenly, one of the women at the back caught her heel on a loose stone and lurched forward, her limbs sprawled clumsily across the cobbled street. As she went down, she let out a shrill cry.

The group stopped in their tracks.

"Fuck! Are you okay?" the man mumbled, swivelling, and crouching to the floor.

"I'm alright. I'm good." The woman pushed herself upright and sat back on her heels; she appeared more annoyed than hurt. The reporter thought she looked like a young Whitney Houston in her Bodyguard days complete with silver beaded dreadlocks. The contents of her heart shaped blue leather bag were strewn across the street.

The friend who'd been walking beside the Whitney look-alike, a woman of African ethnicity, turned to face the pair of journalists; the whites of her eyes appeared bright in her face. 'Please,' she pleaded. 'My friend is hurt. Please back off?'

'But-"

"But nothing!" The blonde woman interjected, with a flash of teeth: "You are very rude! This is harassment. Look at what you did!" She pointed to her friend, who was still crouched on the street attempting to return the contents of her bag.

The reporter flinched at the force of the accusation. She'd been ready to help but took a step back. Her photographer placed a protective arm across her chest and drew her into his chest.

The man who they'd called Nick, glanced at the pair of journalists, and shook his head. He held his hand out to the woman on the ground.

"Violet's going to spew blood when she gets here," he said to no one in particular. He was older than the others, the reporter guessed, in his late twenties with an effeminate air about him. He wore black leather piped pants and a long-sleeved fitted top with a cherry red cravat draped stylishly around his neck.

"Has anyone called her?" The African woman asked, stretching her long limbs to retrieve a tube of lipstick from the center of the street.

"Shussshh!" said the Whitney look alike. She stood up pulling at her skirt, which barely covered her bottom.

"I would if I could, but I don't know her number," the man said, ignoring the caution and glancing at his wristwatch. "Besides, she's already in the air."

"It's not our fault," said the blonde woman, her cheeks flushed crimson.

"Too right it's not our fault. If anyone's to blame, it's her bloody husband!"

"Nick!" The Whitney girl hissed, glancing nervously at the reporter. "Know when to shut up already-"

The man shrugged.

The reporter spotted a moment of weakness in the group and took a step closer. "Can you tell me anything? Off the record-."

The blonde woman lunged at the reporter; her voluptuous lips curled in a tight snarl; beauty turned ugly in an instant.

"I swear to God if you don't leave us, I'm going to scream!"

"I'm sorry. Scusa. I'm gone!" said the reporter, holding her hands open in surrender; her microphone flailing precariously between a thumb and forefinger.

The African woman placed a hand on her blonde friend's shoulder. "Charlie, it's not worth it-c'mon. Let's go."

With a quick spin, the reporter retreated from the group, her photographer hot on her heels.

"There's something there," she whispered.

"Agreed," said the photographer, a slow grin spreading across his face.

When they were some distance away on the far side of the street, the journalists huddled at a bus shelter and watched like hawks as the group disappeared around the corner. The reporter noting how they each walked in the same way, marching in time as if to a beat, their heads held high and straight, long arms dangling by their sides.

"Did you get anything good?"

"Too soon to tell. Lighting's good though."

The reporter's thoughts were flying at a million miles an hour.

"Game plan over coffee?"

"Yes. Let's do it."

The sun was high in the sky now and the photographer removed his jacket. Slipping back into Italian, he asked: "Hai caldo?"

"Sì, è bello e fa caldo." The reporter agreed: the day was nice and hot. Just right for chasing a story.